Pussy Galore – Melody Maker: Splayed Alive [Live review of Mean Fiddler show] (PRESS, UK)

This show was released on the Cum Into My Mouth bootleg album.

“Let’s Get some beers on stage!”

Jon leans across the microphone, dirty and dishevelled, “C’mon guys let’s have some ACTION!”

Only one thing matters more to Jon than having a good time, and that is getting wasted. Tonight, he’s come to the right place.

Pussy Galore, in their wilful reconstruction of extreme noise terror, are so far ahead of the pack they make comparisons spurious. Primal noise terrorists who believe that rawness and image are goddamn everything, they buzz across our consciousness for 30 seconds, no more, and then run for the relative safety of the dressing room, pursued only by a few half-hearted heckles. “C’mon guys, let’s get some beers on stage!”
Pussy Galore are the first band I’ve encountered to have a whole set’s repartee consist of convoluted bar orders.

Their songs – of you can call them that for, in their determination not to be caught out and have a good time y’awl, stops and starts are kept to the bare minimum, and since their songs are structured along the same lines, it becomes difficult to tell any apart – consist of primal grinds; guitar meat thrust into the face of the surprisingly small, pulsating audience to chew over.

Pussy Galore deconstruct the art of noise to its basics and then strip it back up accordingly – a Pussy Galore song could be written on two fingers, but that’s not to account for the excitement.

“C’mon guys, let’s have some BEER!” Of course this whole rock ‘n’ rollers-out-on-the-street image is ridiculous to the extreme, but it works. More poor little rich kids weaned on a diet of The Stooges and The Stones, taken to dressing up and turning up LOUD.

Pussy Galore’s roots lies in the New York “No Wave” explosion of 78/79, rather than with any British counterparts. At times they remind me of The Cramps in the cut and thrust of their throbbing baseline, but The Cramps never were this BRUTAL.

Jon’s guttural vocals, mixed six times under the PA system, have a perfect counterfoil in the other two guitarists and Julia’s traumatic presence. And, just when you think its all too much, in comes Julia with a thrusting microphone welter, Jon throws his guitar off, and we start all over again.

Pussy Galore are as sexy as f***. The sleaze, the slime, the breeze, the brine of New York’s mean streets are perfectly encapsulated within their songs of hatred and desire, music for people long ago disillusioned with music. Pussy Galore are as horny as hell: where else could their raw, animalistic urges come from if not the groin? A band which aims low and hits hard.

Pussy Galore are eminently danceable. Rhythms are kept as simple as humanely possible for their fans to latch on to; on occasion reminiscent of John Lee Hooker or Primal Scream, without the sterility. Pussy Galore flirt with danger knowingly and end-up sounding like real pussy cats.

“Hey! can we get a beer up here?!” This is the language which the Pussies speak, and this is the only language which makes sense in this context. Kids just wanna have a good time and get laid. Tonight Pussy Galore rocked out.

EVERETT TRUE”